When the Light First Touched

Before it came, there was only light,

A hush curled just above the surface

Of the world, holding its breath -

As if the pond were made of glass,

And nothing dared to tremble or rise,

Not even the echo of my name.

The wind never spoke my name.

It simply touched the waiting light

And whispered, now. I watched it rise

Like smoke from the still surface,

Its edges warping over the glass

As if the world now held its breath.

I forgot I had a breath

To hold, forgot my own name,

Forgot that I could shatter glass

With one step towards the light.

But even that thought broke the surface,

A single tremble, a single rise.

I didn’t mean to rise,

But something moved beneath my breath,

A ripple spreading from the surface,

Calling something older than my name,

And pulling me through imprisoned light

Reflected sharp in fragile bones of glass.

I touched the water - bent the glass,

Saw sky and self and past all rise

Together into the shape of light,

And with it came my held-back breath.

Not the sound of voice or name,

But stillness breaking on the surface.

Now I watch the world from just beneath the surface,

My face still folded in the glass,

Not quite gone and not quite my name,

Not quite descent, not quite rise.

But in this held and borrowed breath,

I wait again for the return of light.

Envoi:

So speak my name, and feel it on your breath,

A tremble on the surface, a refraction of light -

My world about to rise, breaking through its own glass.